


A bird in the hand

by nikaris



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: Aiden's driving skills, Amnesia, Bleeding Effect, Desmond Miles Lives, F/M, It's genetic, M/M, Modern Assassins (Assassin's Creed), Nicky's driving skills, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Overprotective Aiden, Overprotective Nicole, Vague Body Horror, who are frantically playing Where's Desmond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-04 00:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikaris/pseuds/nikaris
Summary: ...is worth two in the bush. Or, that one time Aiden's sister ran over an Assassin with her car.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written a long time ago and posted on ff.net (with some edits.) At this point, anything I post on AO3 is being actively worked on with chapters in the works. So... make of that what you will.
> 
> This work is not beta'd.

Jordi Chen liked to think of himself as a jack of all trades kind of guy.  In the simplest of forms, he was a supplier—a _provider_ of ah, _necessary provisions_ for clienteles with unique tastes and hobbies. From just his amazing way with words (his own opinion of course, but there were many hostages whom would have said the same, provided the right reinforcement) to his vast connections, Jordi was proud to admit that he was one notable fixer. After all, he had been hired by the Vigilante himself and really, not many other fixers could boast to have been contacted by the rising head honcho of Chicago himself.

And while jobs from the infamous Fox were not super interesting particularly, what _was_ interesting was the quest that the man was on—hunting for answers surrounding the Merlaut that Jordi had to admit, piqued even his interests. His own web of connections and even people he had had his eye on had lit up like crazy the day of and after that job, and Jordi was itching to know why—even if the gray hat hacker had him babysitting Maurice Vega.

Annoying, sure—but money was money and Aiden was certainly providing a good show. Besides, Jordi appreciated a little company now and then. Provided, Maurice wasn’t the _best_ company as the guy had been screaming and blubbering for the past half hour, but he’d had worst.

It was _much_ better than being stuck with ruddy contracts of _boring_ people who either needed someone to disappear here, a bomb planted there, or strippers.  (There had been a high demand of those.) It was a nice change in scenery, so to say. Not to say that Aiden didn’t have him do boring jobs either, but at least the guy paid well.

 _‘And money sings such a sweet, sweet tune.’_ Jordi grinned, flipping through the thick wad of bills (all new with non-sequential serial numbers—his _favorite_ ) that had been in the nondescript envelope by his current said employer. Oh yes, Aiden paid _well._

His timer buzzed, the numbers blinking 4:00 pm and Jordi tucked the cash into the breast pocket of his shirt, grinning in anticipation of his next payout. He holstered his sniper rifle and from the window of the cheap motel room, scoped to his target.

Andrew Grant—narcotics ring smuggler and the competing rival to one of Jordi’s clients (who, was actually losing horribly to.) According to his bio, Grant was a suspect of several unsolved murders, kidnappings, and involved in some other unsavory businesses. Honestly, Jordi was surprised that a hit wasn’t ordered on him sooner. (Either that, or there were and the fixers who tried were horrible at their jobs.) There was a promise of a fat load of money wired to his offshores account when the job was done, and Jordi was itching to see that cash flow.

If Jordi was to be perfectly honest, he didn’t have any qualms with killing the man despite the money. (He would never vocally admit that though.) _Moral_ wasn’t Jordi’s middle name, but he could admit that there was _some_ satisfaction in taking someone down who deserved it.

Jordi’s mouth thinned, reminded of the photos of dead kids from the victim list. 

Right on the dot, Mr. Grant stood in front of the penthouse windows, viewing the city and _oh so vulnerable_ in Jordi’s sight.

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

* * *

Well, he _would_ have enjoyed it— if someone hadn’t beaten him to the punch.

Jordi sat at one of the tables of _Brewed Delight_ and sighed morosely, his face held up by one hand while the other held his phone with his bank account information—which showed 20k less of what it could have had.

And it was all because another fixer had gotten a contract on his mark.

The hit could have been called for any number of reasons considering Mr. Grant’s long trek record of pissing people off, but Jordi hated being so close to a bounty only to lose it.   

He had to admit though, whoever that fixer was…the guy had _style._

And Jordi could appreciate style.

Grant had practically walked right into Jordi’s crosshairs before there had been a streak of movement. A flash of white left Jordi jerking his scope around to find the cause but before he had been able to catch a face, his target was dead on the floor, his assailant sweeping a hand over Grant’s face before the fixer had _jumped off the roof_ and escaped _rooftop to rooftop_ like someone out of a comic book.

It was a pity that he didn’t know the other fixer’s name. Jordi figured that he could benefit from having the guy as a connection. (After giving a firm talking to about stealing other people’s marks, of course. There was _etiquette_ to fixer-ism, after all!) He’d even tried to have an associate of his pull up ctOS traffic camera footage in hopes of getting an ID, but it seemed that whoever the fixer was, he also had the tech to spoof Blume’s facial recognition software. It was different from the one that Aiden used; not as sophisticated as his number 1 paying client, but as good as.

 _‘Guy must be new to town_.’ Jordi thought, taking a sip from his coffee.  He knew almost every fixer in Chicago, and the ones that fit the unknown fixer’s physical profile didn’t have any penchant for killing and roof hopping like _that_.  

Because killing with a _blade?_ That was some old school shit. _Very cool,_ Jordi settled, but most fixers used guns or poisons due to ease of access and efficiency. Not to mention, bullets were expendable and easy to hide. Knives _weren’t._

Either way, Jordi was more intrigued than annoyed.

There was a new player in town and Jordi had a feeling that he’d be seeing a _lot_ of this mysterious new fixer. Besides, if the guy caught Jordi’s attention, it probably wouldn’t be long before he caught Aiden’s.

And if/when that ever happened _,_ Jordi would gladly even bring the popcorn.

* * *

 “Jesus man. Jesus! I killed Eddie. I know I did!”

He was going to kill Jordi after this was done.

Aiden saw the flashing light of red and blue and quickly turned into an alleyway, ignoring the panicked cursing of his backseat driver. He drove carefully, eyes attentive to any nearby police car and making sure to use the other parked cars on the island as cover.

Aiden listened with one ear at his passenger’s nervous chatter. There were more pressing matters at the moment, but the calmer his passenger was, the better. He had a whole police force to sneak past and he didn’t need a hyperventilating fugitive on the side.

“I…I heard the sirens, and I just reacted. I-I thought he’d slow them down if I wounded him.” From the rearview mirror, Aiden saw the man’s arm clench around an old laptop sporadically. There was a patch of blood on the arm of his sweater. “I was aiming for his arm, man. I swear to God. O-One of us had to make it back, right? These people don’t accept failure.”

Why his passenger was explaining himself to him, Aiden didn’t know, but he couldn’t help the sliver of pity for the guy for what had happened and for what was _going_ to him. Whoever the fugitive worked for, Aiden had a suspicion that they wouldn’t be merciful. 

The heavy thrum of a helicopter permeated the air and immediately, Aiden killed the engine.

“Stay quiet and keep your head down.” Aiden murmured, and was pleased when his charge huddled in the back seat.

It wasn’t long before the helicopter flew past, its searchlight passing harmlessly overhead. Aiden exhaled and counted till two before starting up the engine and accelerating to run over a portion of the chain link fence in front of them. The car’s wheels scraped over the top of a dumpster, before it dropped down a half level to the ground and more importantly, _out_ of the police controlled territory.

“Oh fuck man, they said you were good. You did it!” His passenger practically sagged in relief. Aiden allowed himself a small grin, but with the scarf covering the bottom half of his face, it was lost on his passenger.  

The drive to the meet place wasn’t an arduous trip, especially with the lack of police. However, that didn’t stop the fugitive in the back from nearly vibrating in nervousness.

“Okay…we’re here. We did it. There’s some guys meeting us. Don’t fuck it up, now…” The fugitive rambled. Three figures stood, meeting the headlights when Aiden turned the car into the designated alley.   

Aiden recognized one of them.

His passenger did too, eyes widening in fright. “What the fuck…that’s Lucky Quinn.”  

Oh, Aiden was going to _fucking murder_ Jordi.

 _‘Dermot Lucky Quinn.’_ Aiden’s gloved hands tightened around the steering wheel, his body tensing at the sight of the old man. Frail and aged as he was, the leader of the Chicago South Club was anything but the kind gentleman of a beneficiary that he made himself out to be to their city. He’d seen Damien cowed by the old man before and despite how much his former mentor griped about the infamous billionaire, there had always been a strong wariness coloring his words.

Aiden didn’t blame him. Something about Quinn made the hair on the back of Aiden’s neck stand on end.

The fugitive seemed to share his sentiment but to a more extreme scale. He was breaking out in a cold sweat, throat constricting nervously. “Why’s the Club boss meeting us?”

Aiden slid the car to a stop.

“He’s not meeting us.” He put the car into park, turning his head to regard his passenger. “He’s meeting you.”

Aiden had been at this game long enough to know what would go down and as such, kept his expression neutral as the man nervously approached Quinn. His eyes swept from Quinn to the rest of his company on his left and right side. He guessed that the bespectacled one in green was one of Quinn’s hacker most likely, considering that the man was handed the laptop. He didn’t look like a hitter that Quinn usually had close at hand.

Aiden glanced at the man in the white on the right and promptly frowned.

Something…felt _off_ about that one.

Unlike Quinn and his hacker, this one didn’t look the part of Quinn’s usual entourage. In fact, he looked small compared to them, huddled into his hoodie, and back stiff. He stood closer to the Club boss than his other companion did, and did not react outwardly at all during Quinn’s chat with the fugitive. To anyone else, the man in white would have looked to be ignoring and disinterested in everyone altogether. Aiden, however, saw otherwise. 

The man had very sharp, gold eyes— and he was anything but inattentive. The man’s gaze swept from Aiden to Quinn with a smooth incline of his head, observing quietly and calmly. He shifted a little when Aiden’s former charge and Quinn walked a couple steps (the man in green following from behind with a hand grasping something in his pocket) and though the hoodie covered most of the man’s face, Aiden could make out a pale scar sliced vertically down the other’s lips.

Aiden wondered what role he was supposed to play when there was suddenly movement from the man in green—a gun being drawn—and Aiden averted his gaze, knowing what was to happen. This was none of his business. However…

With his phone clasped between the steering and his hand, Aiden nudged his screen with his thumb and snapped a quick picture before sliding his phone down his sleeve in one quick and natural motion.

When Aiden glanced up again, he wasn’t surprised to see the fugitive dead after the hacker had failed. What _did_ surprise him though was who made the fatal blow. As weak as the old man looked, it was a fool’s mistake to think that Quinn didn’t carry some sort of protection on him. He’d heard stories along the grapevine that Quinn had a fondness for blades, but it wasn’t Quinn’s knife embedded in the fugitive.

It was the hooded man’s. He stood _between_ the fugitive and the elderly man. The man in white’s shoulder was against the fugitive’s chest, palm flat against the other’s stomach where a rapidly forming patch of red was growing.

Quinn’s protector stepped back. The blade— _was it…strapped to the man’s wrist?—_ flashed in the headlights of the car when it was retracted underneath the sleeve of his hoodie.

Aiden could hear Quinn hum in approval.   

Well, that answered that.

  _‘Definitely a hitter.’_ Aiden thought, watching the man in white step into Quinn’s shadow.  

Three shots rang out from Quinn’s other man and Aiden turned his head, eyes firmly on the leather of the passenger seat as Quinn slowly approached his window.

His gun was right there. He could kill Quinn if he wanted to. His bodyguard wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

But Aiden couldn’t move.

“You can tell your employer I’ll call again.” Quinn’s hand felt like ice on his shoulder and Aiden’s jaw locked. “If I ever need delivery.” 

Aiden nodded once, curtly.

And as Aiden backed out of the alleyway, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, the man with the scar on his lip kneel down over the dead fugitive, one hand sweeping his eyes closed as his lips parted in what Aiden could only assume as prayer.

Funny, he never would have guessed the guy to be a religious man.  

* * *

 His phone vibrated. 

_“Hey, how’d it go? You finish that job yet?”_

Aiden’s mouth curled. “You thought I’d be okay working for the fucking Club?”

He could almost hear Jordi sigh admonishingly. _“A paycheck is a paycheck. You’ve got to start separating the morals from the moola. But, tell you what; I’ll hook you up with my guy. He’ll find you better driving gigs if you want.”_

Aiden grunted, stopping at the red light. “Yeah sure, I dunno if I’ll take them…but give him my name.” He could use some extra cash, to which Jordi cheerfully voiced. Aiden thought back to the alley and the man in white.

“Hey, Jordi.”

_“Hm?”_

“I need you to look up someone.”

_“Oh? You got a name?”_

“No name. A photo, actually. Sending it to you now.” 

 _“Someone caught your eye, huh? Let’s have a looksee and—oh.”_  There was a pause before Jordi’s voice turned a touch lower. _“Well I’ll be damned. He’s works for Quinn, huh?”_

“You know him?”

“ _Seen_ him more like it—in passing, you could say.” Jordi chuckled. “He’s as elusive as you in the ctOS facial recognition system and I’ll have to thank you for the first clear photo I’ve ever had the pleasure of getting my hands on.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “But can you get me a name?”

“Of course.” Jordi answered easily. “Oh, and since you asked, Maurice is doing just fine in his new home.”  

* * *

 Two days later, it turned out that he didn’t need Jordi to get a name.

* * *

_“Aiden?! Aiden, oh thank god!”_

_At the sound of his sister’s panicked voice, Aiden’s body went rigid and all thoughts of meeting with Jordi over a ‘problem’ went out the window._

_“Nicky? What’s wrong? Are you and Jacks—?!” Aiden’s hands convulsed around his phone and he took off into a run towards a parked car, quickly disabling its alarm and planning a route straight to his sister. If something happened to her or Jackson…_

“We’re fine!” _Nicky cut in. She sounded like she was this close to hyperventilating and Aiden forced himself to remain calm._ “We’re fine, Aiden. It’s just—I-I need your help. How soon can you get here?”

_“Stay in the house.”  He ran a red light, nearly sideswiping an incoming Volvo. “I’m on my way right now.”_

_He kept Nicky on the line, soothing her as best as he could until he pulled up to her house. Aiden all but kicked the door down, preparing himself for the worst, but at the sight of Jackson and Nicky curled on the couch together and more importantly **safe** , Aiden released the breath he didn’t realize that he had been holding. _

_“Aiden!” Nicky smiled weakly, letting her brother grasp her arms as he methodically checked her and Jackson over. “Thank god, you’re here.”_

_“Tell me everything. What happened?”_  

* * *

“You, _what?_ ”

“I hit him with my car.” Nicky repeated, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She struggled to stay calm, gripping the mug of tea between her hands for support as Aiden sat before her, coffee in his own grasp. “I-I tried calling an ambulance, but he begged me not to before he passed out. So, I moved him inside and called you.”

“You shouldn’t have moved him. He could have internal bleeding.” 

“I know that, but it was better than leaving him outside for the neighbors to spook.” Nicky swallowed thickly, face pale in guilt over what she had done. “Do you think he’ll be okay? I didn’t—I don’t know how hard I hit him.”

“We’ll have to wait and see.” Aiden only replied, gaze going to the closed door of Nicky’s bedroom. He had called Jordi and requested a medic—but considering that this was _Jordi,_ Aiden didn’t quite think that whoever had walked through the door had the cleanest of records. Not that that mattered of course. A medic was a medic.  

“He came to warn us, Aiden.” Nicky finally murmured, quietly. “He said something about seeing people follow me home. I didn’t believe him at first when he turned up but then a car pulled up and these _people_ with _guns—”_ Nicky faltered.

Aiden leaned forward and gripped her hand. She took a minute. 

“Someone must have been watching us.” Nicky continued, her eyes going to Jackson listlessly playing on his tablet. “Because I’ve seen that car before and it’s always been parked the next street over. When he showed up, it just suddenly came at us. He told us to run and—Aiden, he must have been in the military or _something_ because the next thing I know, they’re _all_ on the ground.” She grimaced. “Well, most of them, at least. Jackson and I made it as far as halfway out of the driveway before my tires were shot out and then—“

Aiden bit the inside of his cheek, _hard_.

Nicky let out a shuddering breath. “By the time I regained control of the car; I saw something move and—and I panicked. And then…” 

“And then you hit him with your car.” Aiden filled in.

Nicky gave a strained sort of smile. “Not my brightest moment, I’ll admit.”

Nicky’s door opened, and Aiden and Nicky immediately looked up as the medic walked up to them, looking rather bored. “I’ve looked him over as requested. He’ll be fine and dandy. He’s merely suffering from a couple bruised ribs, a couple scratches, and a sprained wrist.” Here the medic paused as if considering something. “There was... bruising at the back of his head, but I doubt it’ll lead to a concussion from my evaluation. Barring any new developments, he should be fine with bed rest and time.” 

Nicky immediately sagged in relief. “Thank you for seeing him on such short notice. It’s so fortunate that you were in town visiting Aiden!”

The medic smiled lightly, shooting Aiden a particularly amused look. Aiden ignored it in favor of clasped the man’s arm in thanks. “I’ve wired you your fee.” He murmured, low enough for Nicky not to hear. The good doctor smirked and dipped his head before taking his leave.

Aiden watched him go before following Nicky into her room.

Nicky’s savior lay on the bed, still (thankfully) unconscious with bandages peeking out of his shirt. Hung over the chair nearby was a familiar white hoodie.

Aiden released a long, terse breath.

When Nicky had shown him the unconscious hooded figure, lying still and curled on her bed, he had _hoped_ that it wouldn’t be who he thought it would be. However, at seeing the scar over his lips, that hope was dashed because now he had a new set of problems.

Not only was his sister in danger by whoever had sent those men, but Nicky had also inadvertently become involved with _Lucky Quinn—_ Aiden frowned deeply at the slumbering man—by _association_. 

“I’m glad he’s okay.” Nicky said softly.

“Did he tell you his name?”

“We didn’t really have the time for niceties, Aiden.” Nicky huffed softly. “And don’t bother looking for a wallet. He didn’t have one on him.”

“You went straight for his wallet? Nicky, you’re supposed to be the _good_ one.” Aiden said automatically to which Nicky paid him back with a half-hearted punch in the arm.

“You know what I meant!”

Aiden grinned faintly in jest before sobering. “So, we have nothing on him.”

“Again, there wasn’t really a lot of time before it all happened.” Nicky replied tiredly. “And by then, I was freaking out too much to even as him his name—"

 “Desmond.”

Aiden and Nicky turned around at the quiet voice behind them.

“Jackson? Honey?” Nicky kneeled down onto one knee.

“He said his name was Desmond.” Jackson said again quietly. He glanced at Aiden and Nicky smiled, reveling in the rare instances her son spoke with someone besides her in his presence. 

“Did he give a last name, kiddo?” Aiden asked gently. Jackson’s brows furrowed before he shook his head once.

Nicky frowned when _that_ particular expression crossed her brother’s face. “Aiden… I know that look on your face. You… _know_ him?”

Aiden grimaced. She knew him far too well. “I’ve just seen him before—and Nicky? He’s bad news. He runs with a bad crowd.”

The younger Pearce didn’t look convinced.

“He _saved_ our lives, Aiden. Someone who came to warn me _and_ buy time for Jackson and I to run _can’t_ be that bad.” She waved her hand flippantly. “Besides, maybe him running with a bad crowd is just a phase.” She gave him a _look._ “I certainly remember running after you when we were kids.”

Aiden scoffed at that, shaking his head but grinning nonetheless.

“But really, Aiden. He saved us. That’s got to count for something.”

 _‘Perhaps.’_ Aiden thought, _‘But he possibly endangered you two even more by butting in like that.’_ Still, the hacker didn’t disagree with her. If ‘Desmond’ hadn’t been there, Aiden didn’t want to think what could have happened.

Aiden was grateful, _despite_ owing a debt to one of _Quinn’s_ men.

The vigilante sighed, leaning against the doorframe in resignation.

Time would only tell what would come out of this. He hoped that for Nicky’s sake, Desmond wouldn’t prove to be someone he needed to _take care_ of too despite his heroics.

* * *

 _“Are you sure his name is Desmond, Aiden?”_ Clara asked unsurely once she saw the only result that checked for both first name and matched the low quality image. She'd cross referenced what Aiden's fixer had gathered to her own network, but surely this couldn't be right... 

“I’m positive.” Aiden said and shook the rain off his coat in the nearby coffee house once he was sure that he had lost Angelo Tucci’s men.   

_“If what I’m seeing is real and this photo you took was taken a couple days ago, then your sister ran over a dead man with her car.”_

“She _hit_ him not ran over.” Aiden said irritably before what the Deadsec member said caught up with him. He handed the barista cash and accepted the warm drink. “What do you mean by _dead man?_ ”

 _“I mean that whoever saved your sister—this ‘Desmond Miles’—is listed as deceased.”_ Clara explained. _“Desmond Miles: Born March 13 th, 1987. **Died** December 21st, 2012.”_

“He looked pretty alive to me.” Well, as alive as you could look while being unconscious at least.

 _“I don’t make the info, Aiden. I just find it.”_ Over the rain, Aiden heard the Canadian make a confused noise.

“Something wrong?”

_“Yes. His file is locked. Very professionally, too.”_

That made Aiden pause. Even _Bloom_ didn’t have something on him?  “But can you crack it?”

Clara hummed. _“I’ll see what I can do.”_

Aiden murmured a quick, “Thanks” before hanging up and sighing deeply.

There was a dead man in his sister’s house, he had zero information on said dead man other than a name and that he worked for _Lucky_ _fucking_ _Quinn_ and due to unfortunate circumstances, he _also_ had to go and get himself arrested to get into Chicago lock-up.

Today was just his day.

_‘Fan-fucking-tastic.’_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ubisoft never got around with making a New Game+, which makes me sad. I heard that it's sequel was very good but I haven't played it yet, so for those of you who have, please note that there will be no element of Watch_Dogs 2 in this story.
> 
> Part of my resolution for this new year is to write more. I think it'll help if I schedule myself for works that I've been leaving hanging for the past year. I think... the next chapter (if not one chapter for any of my already posted works) will be posted this Friday, if not sooner. I'm going to make myself write this year! (What are you guys' resolutions?)
> 
> Comments/reviews are greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as Nicky had been looking forward to it, it didn't seem like she was going to get the answered she wanted anytime soon. 
> 
> Desmond could relate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early! I'm making progress for my resolution! 
> 
> In other news, I started replaying Watch_Dogs again. I used to really hate the driving missions, but now, I enjoy them. (Maybe it’s because I’m forcing Aiden to drive everywhere in a garbage truck.) This is unbeta-ed.

Nicky had always looked up to Aiden. He was her big brother, after all. Sure, he'd pick on and tease her every chance he got, infuriating her to absolutely no end (as big brothers often did) but there was never any doubt that he had her back. Through their rocky childhoods and The Accident, he had proven time and time again his devotion to her. He was the best brother anyone could ask for. He'd always been there for her, ever the doting and protective big brother.

That wasn't to say that Aiden was perfect. He had a habit of making less than desirable acquaintances, and while Nicky was one to respect boundaries, that didn't stop her from subtly showing her disapproval, to which Aiden would stubbornly ignore. For all the good that Aiden tried to do for her, he was very resistant to any offered back.

It was a source of annoyance for Nicky because no matter how much Aiden reached out to her and Jackson on their problems, he always kept them at arm's reach on the matter of his own affairs. A symptom of  _pride—_ maybe, but Nicky was well aware of Aiden's reluctance to divulge anything as casual as what his day job  _really_  was because, ' _data analyst, my ass.'_

But despite his deceptions, Nicky  _trusted_ Aiden. He always had her best interests at heart and after Jacks' father had left, Aiden had been there for her when she thought it was all going to go to hell. So, when Aiden moved her and Jacks to a temporary apartment for safety, she went with no complaint. They  _had_ been attacked in their own home. Nicky just didn't feel as safe as she did before that fateful day and she was sure that Aiden wanted some sort of precaution to in case whoever had ordered the deed wanted to finish the job.

She was, however… a little surprised at the location. The apartment building was on one of the pricier sides of housing and last, she'd heard, hadn't this building been fully rented out?

In fact, Aiden seemed to go a little overboard—somehow alerting the police department to have additional security outside their apartment complex. It  _was_ kind of weird how they didn't wear any formal sort of uniforms, but she guessed that Aiden  _did_ have a point when he told her that it was a good way for them to 'blend in.'

("I know the company. They take…contracts…with Chicago's best. Trust me, Nicky. They're good at what they do." Aiden assured her.)

How Aiden had been able to secure the place was still a nagging concern to her, but Nicky pushed that to the back of her mind where all the  _other_ hair-pulling questions about her brother resided.

What Aiden did was Aiden's business after all and for the sake of her sanity, she didn't meddle. She had resigned herself to let him do his own thing.

" _ **Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. XXX-XXX-XXXX is not available. At the tone, please press—"**_

Even if it did hurt.

Nicky threw her phone onto the couch, sighing half in exasperation and half in another emotion of a metaphorical can of worms that she didn't dare to acknowledge. Maybe  _she_ should consider therapy. The past months had been…rough…on everyone and perhaps it was finally getting to her. It was all so much. Jackson's father, The Accident, the overbearing  _silence._

And now this? Being attacked in their own  _home?_

Nicky paused in her unpacking, fingers resting on a photo frame inside. It had been fortunate—so very  _fortunate_ that Desmond had been there. How and even  _why_ he'd come to their aid like  _that_ was beyond her, but that had only amplified the sheer depth of gratitude she felt for him. Things would have turned out differently if he hadn't intervened. After the Accident, just the thought of losing anyone—potentially losing  _Jackson—_

The blonde shuddered, releasing a controlled, slow breath before continuing to unpack.

It was good that Desmond had been there. Nicky sighed again, trying her best not to dwell in worry.

Now, if only he'd  _wake up._

* * *

Through the crack in the doorway, Jackson let out a put-out sigh when it seemed like for the second day in a row, his and his mom's savior state remained unchanged.

According to the doctor, Desmond should have woken up a couple days ago, but strangely, hadn't. It was a source of concern to both his mom and the doctor after the first day with nary an improvement, but without information of any sort of preexisting condition, it just seemed like the man was in some self-induced coma.

'Just like in Episode 3 of the living story of Glitch Wars,' Jackson thought absently. Berserker had fallen into a coma after an epic online battle in the finale before being revived by Healer in the next episode. Healer was, in Jackson's opinion, the best character in the entire game. Healer was hardly a main character, opting to stay on the sidelines while the others dished out damage, but Jackson thought him invaluable to the entire cast. To be able to heal, protect…

Mood dampening, Jackson tentatively nudged the door open with his foot, careful of the basin of warm water balanced in his arms.

Well, at least he looked like he was sleeping easier, Jackson noted, placing the basin on the bedside table. His mother tended to be a heavy sleeper, so she hadn't heard or been witness to their savior in the throes of a nightmare.

Jackson frowned at the memory, feeling a stab of sympathy when he remembered how the man— _"Hey kiddo. My name is Desmond. I need you and your ma to stay put so I can get rid of these jerks, okay?"_ —had cried out last night. He rubbed at a spot on his chest absentmindedly. It reminded him of how Uncle Aiden had been after his sister had died.

He wondered who Desmond had lost.

Dutifully, Jackson began tending to their savior, using the washcloth to wipe away the sweat collecting across Desmond's furrowed brows. He made to re-soak the washcloth into the water basin when his attention caught on something peeking out from behind the bowl.

Curious, Jackson moved the basin to the side, unsure of what the item really was. He hadn't seen this before. Perhaps his mother had brought it out? It was made primarily of strips of leather—straps, he guessed. They wrapped around a long, inch wide plate and in what little light the room provided, Jackson could make out the faintest of a symbol emblazoned at its hilt. It felt old and worn in his hand, but well-kept. He turned it over and felt along the indentation. His fingers caught against a looped, pulley-like cord at the top and just as Jackson was about to tug it—

He gasped as a firm hand grasped his wrist.

Startled, Jackson turned towards its owner and met piercing brown eyes.

Their savior— _Desmond,_ the man had introduced himself as—was awake.

Which…maybe wasn't a good thing. The doctor had warned of the potential lack of lucidity after being under for so long, especially after physical trauma and after having seen Desmond fight that day, knew that he didn't want to be on the receiving end of any of it.

But as the seconds ticked by, Jackson got the feeling that maybe his fears were unfounded because Desmond didn't seemas bad as the doctor had warned. He kind of looked like how his mom did without her morning caffeine: bedraggled and sluggish—but the only difference was that he didn't look as out-of-it as his mom usually did when he woke her up.

Instead, Desmond's eyes were alert but not entirely unfriendly. The hand around his wrist loosened and accompanied by the small frown and pointed look on Desmond's face, Jackson got the distinct feeling of being scolded. He ducked his head, face reddening, but at the feeling of a hand clumsily ruffling his hair, peeked up.

The scar on Desmond's lips stretched as he grinned gently, expression a cross between relieved and exasperated. He still looked tired—how, Jackson couldn't understand because the man had practically been hibernating—but Jackson was glad to see some color in his cheeks.

Desmond shifted a little and when his arm snaked out of the duvet, Jackson obediently let the item drop into the man's waiting hand. The man made a 'watch this' motion with his hand and Jackson looked on with some amount of confusion as Desmond balanced the length of the object along the flat of his arm. He carefully secured the leather straps around his arm, before he pointed with his free hand at the weird cord that Jackson had found. He saw Desmond pull it over his thumb and when the digit jerked, the muscles of his hand pulled at the cord and—

Jackson jumped as a  _blade_ slid out of the narrow plate—a sheath, like  _Thief's_ in Glitch Wars— with a near silent hiss into the lamp's light. The blade was flaked with a reddish stain— _'Rust?'_ Jackson wondered, — extending a good three or four inches out of its plating. The looped cord must have been a releasing mechanism then and it was with that realization that Jackson knew that if he had pulled that cord with his face  _that_ close to the item like it had been before…

Jackson winced.

With another jerk of his thumb, the blade slid back into the sheath. Desmond moved to place it back on the bedside table but hissed before he even got close, one hand going to press against his injured ribs and the other to plant into the mattress to keep him from keeling over.

Jackson caught the blade before it landed in the bowl of lukewarm water and watched nervously as Desmond fought for breath. It took a moment before Desmond recovered and he eased himself back against the headboard, chest rising and falling fitfully.

The episode seemed to take a lot out of him, stealing whatever healthy color he had out of him. Desmond seemed to notice his discomfort and opened his mouth but something like a cross between a wheeze and cough escaped him. He reached out blindly.

Jackson, understanding the silent request, reached out to the nearby pitcher and poured Desmond a glass of water. He handed it carefully to the other man and ducked his head again when the man's eyes softened in thanks. He accepted the cup back when proffered and nearly started when Desmond let out a rasp of pain in his attempts to get into a more upright position against the headboard. When he succeeded, he sagged into himself, letting out a faint sigh.

"'kay?" Jackson prodded.

"Yeah. Thanks, kiddo." Desmond croaked, voice hoarse from disuse. Bleary eyes darted left and right and his brows furrowed as he took in his surroundings. "Where…where am I?"

_Home,_ Jackson wanted to say but thought better of it because it wasn't really _._ Uncle Aiden had said it was only a temporary relocation until 'he handled the situation' but Jackson got the feeling that it was going to be a lot more than just temporary. The situation was a little confusing and Jackson didn't have the words in him to explain it…

"Jacks? Jacks! Jackson, where are you, honey?" Jackson perked up at his mother's voice. That was good because she could explain this whole situation much better than he could.

He shot Desmond a pointed, 'stay-here-don't-move' look and when Jackson judged that the man got the message (assuming the surprised blink he got in response was an acquiesce,) ran out of the room towards his mother's voice.

He wasn't gone for long, back only a moment later with his mother yelping in front of him with his hands planted against her back as he steered her from the living room to the guest room.

"Jackson! What's all this about? What's gotten you in such a hurry for—oh." Nicky caught herself against the guest room door frame, gaping at their finally-awake guest. "You're awake!"

Their guest, for his credit, didn't seem to know how to react either. He slowly raised a hand, giving a hesitant little wave that Nicky couldn't help but smile at for its sheer awkwardness. "You had us worried for the past few days. How do you feel?"

"Well," Desmond started tentatively, grinning nervously. "Like I got run over by a bus, frankly."

Automatically, Nicky groaned. "Oh, this will follow me  _forever._ " She meant it as a joke to lighten the mood but instead, Desmond's grin faltered, demeanor suddenly uncertain.

"I…sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"Oh, no, no!" Nicky quickly assured. "What do  _you_ have to be sorry about? It was my fault! I nearly had a heart attack over it because it was more than a  _tap_  but less than  _bump_  but—ah, I'm not making this any better, am I?"

The corner of Desmond's mouth twitched upwards, "It's okay."

"I'm rambling at this point. Sorry, we've had a really hectic couple of days." Nicky laughed, albeit with forced cheer. "Are you uncomfortable? Do you need anything? 'Cause you  _really_ had us worried there. One more day and we would have had to start you on a drip!"

"I'm fine." Desmond answered, but he still looked worryingly unsure. His hands clenched and unclenched on the fabric of the duvet. "I… do have some questions though."

"Oh! Of course." Nicky smiled. "We get it. It must be weird to wake up in an unfamiliar place."

"It's a shock, yeah." Desmond laughs, weakly. "Thanks for, uh, taking care of me? I appreciate it, just—" Here, their savior paused, and when he seemed to collect himself, his expression became very, very lost, "…who are you, exactly?"

* * *

"Curious." The pocket light moved from the left eye to the right. The pupil dilated in response and followed a finger when it swung by the medic's ear. "Pupils are equal… nothing from the optic disk…"

"Is that bad?"

The medic straightened, clicking the small flashlight off as his patient blinked rapidly to adapt from the abrupt disappearance of light.

"Oh, no. It just means his brain isn't bleeding." The medic said cheerfully and didn't seem to notice how much Nicky blanched. "I don't know why I didn't see it before!" The medic continued, chastising himself before scrutinizing his patient. "Limbic, perhaps? You did hit the back of your head pretty hard." He hummed. "You say you don't remember anything from the last couple days? How you got in this state at all?"

"Uh, not really." Desmond said and that was the truth. He couldn't recall being hit by a car or any of the things that Nicky claimed transpired. Hell, he hadn't even known his  _name_ until Nicky had called him by it and it had just sort of  _clicked._

"Curious." The doctor said again and Desmond released a breath when the doctor leaned out of his personal bubble. There was no reason for him to be wary of the medical professional—he clearly meant no harm, despite his eccentricities—but for some reason, Desmond's skin prickled whenever he saw his white lab coat at the edge of his vision.

"So, the last thing you remember is waking up?" Nicky asked.

Desmond nodded miserably. That, and of the lingering pain. It had stretched from a heavy ache at the back of his head to an unexpected twinge around his chest. He had next slowly comprehended being in a darkened room only illuminated by dim lamp light and only when he had seen the teenager at his bedside—Jackson, he recalled—investigating that  _thing_  did adrenaline chase the sluggishness out of body.

Now that he thought about it… Desmond wasn't sure  _why_  it had made him freak out so much. Something had just  _itched_  at the back of his mind, telling him that the object was not to be played with. The next thing he knew, his body had just acted automatically before Jackson could hurt himself because—

_**  
our trade, your birthright, dangerous, should not be in the hands of a NOVICE—** _

  
Desmond jerked, his hand automatically going to press against his temple with a hiss. He vaguely heard Nicky's gasp of worry and the doctor startle, too focused on the rush of—thought? Memory?—that had come and gone before he could fully register it.

_What was that?_

"Desmond?!"

"Sorry, just—headache." The brunet murmured, waving away Nicky's worry. He glanced to the doctor, cracking a shaky grin. "This, uh, doesn't mean my brain's bleeding, right?"

"Oh, no." The doctor tittered before he paused, considering, "but if you do start having seizures or weakness in your arms or legs within the next 48 hours, do call."

"Comforting." Desmond sighed, rubbing at his eyes.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." Nicky said quickly. "In any case, you should rest, Desmond. I know you've been hibernating for the last couple days but, well—" She considered him, noting how his arms trembled and how his head seemed to want to bow into his chest. "It looks like you need it."

* * *

"You're sure he'll be fine?" Nicky asked again once the guest room door was closed firmly behind her. She led him down the hall to the living room. From his spot on the couch nearby, Jackson briefly looked up from his tablet at their entrance but quickly returned to his game once deeming them uninteresting.

"From what I observed." The doctor huffed. "Of course, I'd need to bring him in to check for  _sure,_ but it doesn't seem like anything serious to worry about."

"He has  _amnesia_! I think that's pretty serious, doctor!" Nicky countered hotly.

" _Retrograde_  amnesia, Ms. Pearce." The doctor returned matter-of-factly, pulling on his coat. "It usually resolves itself without treatment. From what your son noted, it's already started. He  _did_ recognize his own personal belonging."

Nicky could recall the strange object that Desmond kept close. Despite that, she still looked dubious. "You're positive?"

"It's very likely not to be permanent." The doctor assured. "Exposure tends to help with recovery. I would suggest getting him out of the apartment." He gave her a thoughtful look, taking in her near-frazzled appearance. "Would certainly do some good for you too."

' _Easier said than done.'_ Nicky thought and long after the doctor took his leave, was still mulling over what to do. She had  _hoped_ to have been able to glean information out of Desmond over the attack, but this new development certainly threw a wrench into that. Either way, even if Desmond didn't remember saving them, that didn't change the fact that she  _owed_ him. She was willing to keep him under her wing until he recovered.

Nicky glanced out of the window, grimacing when she caught her reflection in the glass. The doctor was right. Perhaps some time outside would do her some good.

She hummed, "Any ideas, Jacks?"

Jackson blinked at his mother before handing her his tablet. There was a drawing of a brown bag overflowing with fruits and junk foods with the latter drawn very disproportionately larger (and more colorfully) than the former.

Nicky smothered a laugh.

"…Grocery shopping, it is."

* * *

_It was cold._

"… _ **were here. Not long, from the looks of it."**_

_It was the only thing he could feel. Why was it so cold?_

"— _ **to bring in the rest. Scrub the place clean for anything we can use."**_

_He could hear them sifting through the rubble, boots pounding on the ancient stone floor. He could sense them moved close and even though instinct told him to flee, his body refused to move._

_He felt himself being turned over and saw bright light from beneath his closed eyelids. Hands pulled at him, stripping him._

"— _ **and subject's arm is useless. A pity, but we can still use what's left."**_

_Useless? What?_

_Something cold smoothed over his upper arm and then with slow, meticulous accuracy, he felt it: the feeling of_ _**burning, slicing** _ _—_

_He heard something catch and something crunch in the background of clinical murmurings. He screamed, but nothing came_ _**out** _ _._

" _ **We can use this."**_

— _and then it was over. A dull ache ebbed where the burning sensation took place. He felt lighter and high on the shock, his senses slowly started to fade away._

" _ **This will be the first sample—"**_

_Something closed over his head. The light faded away._

" _ **Sample 17."**_

* * *

Desmond woke up in cold sweat, limbs shaking, and panic trapped inside his bones.

For a moment, he was frozen there, staring utterly confused and terrified at the ceiling of simple bedroom. His heart beat frantically in his chest and panicked, Desmond looked around anxiously, trying to identify where the hell he was before his memory stirred, the pieces from earlier coming together and stealing his terror away. Waking up, a doctor, a mother, her son.

But more importantly, s _afe._ Something inside him relaxed slightly, the panic becoming not as paralyzing. He vaguely realized that he had been clutching his upper arm and when he let go, let out a shuddering sigh of relief when he saw everything accounted for. ' _Just a dream,'_ he told himself and even though he felt silly for getting so riled up over it, he couldn't help but be troubled over how  _real_ it had felt.

Grimacing, Desmond shook that thought away and slowly pulled himself up, mindful of the lingering twinge of his ribs.

He sat back against the headboard, letting his breathing settle before he paused, realizing all the sudden how utterly  _quiet_ the apartment was. He could nary hear a sound from outside his room. Surely it wasn't night yet. From his internal clock, it didn't seem like he had slept all that long. He tested his feet against the wooden floor and rose up on unsteady legs, only catching himself once on a nearby chair as he made his way to the door.

"Hello?"

Warm light greeted him from the open window when he entered the hall. The clock hanging on the living room wall read midafternoon when Desmond hobbled his way to the empty living room. Where in the world were…?

And then his eyes caught a pink sticky note attached to the kitchen counter.

_  
Hey Desmond!_

_Jacks and I are headed to Vessal's to grab groceries! Feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge. Call if you need anything. We'll be back soon assuming traffic isn't bad!_

_-Nicky_

_(XXX) XXX-XXXX_

  
Well, that explained that. Desmond hummed, reading over the note again. Nicky was… surprisingly accommodating to someone like him, a stranger. Even though he knew that he had 'saved' her and Jackson and that she was likely under some obligation to pay him back, Desmond was still uncomfortable over how she was essentially doting on him.

'Wow, I must  _not_ have had a good childhood.' Desmond realized with a snort and on a whim, felt the back of his head. He winced when he brushed a particularly sensitive bruise and sighed, inwardly damning the amnesia. It was horribly cliché.

Even if he didn't remember saving her and Jackson, Desmond was glad that he did it. Nicky seemed like a sweet woman and even though Jackson had a habit of touching things that didn't belong to him (which was strangely not a bad thing according to the strange swell of pride in his chest at the thought,) the two didn't deserve anything bad to happen to them.

But clearly something had.

Because Desmond wasn't blind. Jackson was worryingly quiet and despite the strong front Nicky put up, there was a veil of loss around her.

They were coping.

'Guess I'm not the only one here who's lost something.' Desmond thought and just as he was about to take Nicky's offer on raiding the fridge, he froze—gaze caught on the photo taped to the wall.

It was a simple polaroid picture, taken possibly some years ago considering the wear and tear around the edges. There were two people in the photo, a blonde woman and taller, brunet man. The woman was smiling wryly and even though the man beside her looked annoyed, his eyes were twinkling. They were siblings, likely, based on their shared facial similarities but that wasn't what stole his attention.

It was the fact that they were both familiar to him.

He knew the man, somehow. In the threadbare scraps of memory that remained, something called for attention.  _(Headlights somewhere dark and narrow.)_ He didn't know  _who,_ or  _where,_ or  _why,_ but… Desmond was  _sure_ he had seen him from somewhere…

But it was the woman who made Desmond's stomach do a weird flop.

The odd thing was, Desmond knew in the back of his mind that it was Nicky. It was obviously Nicky but that didn't explain the dizzyingly wave of sheer  _familiarity_ that her image created. She looked slightly different, sure, but that shouldn't matter. It was only her hairstyle that had changed in the photo! Her hair was up in the photo—not in the pony tail like he'd seen before, but in a high bun with the loose strands swept to the side…

_**  
(A steel door slid open. He felt someone pull him out of his cage into a white room, saying, "Come on Desmond, we have to get you out of here before they find out what I've done.")** _

  
Desmond lurched backwards. ' _What was that!?'_

His throat felt full and hands clammy, like he was supposed to do something but didn't know  _what._ He looked to the photo again and made a startled sound when he saw the woman's face was blurred in his vision.  _'What?'_

The back of his head ached.

**  
(A shy laugh. "Sorry, I'm just a little surprised. I spent the whole ride over here figuring out how I was going to convince you to do this…")**

  
' _Do what?'_  Desmond thought frantically. She was— _had_ been speaking to him, right? That meant he knew her and she, him. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with some hint of her identity but came up short. There was something about this woman. This person he was seeing in Nicky's place—whoever she was—had been…important. What did she do?

He tried to recall her voice again, and despite the ebbing ache that started to grow in his head, gritted his teeth, unwilling to let it deter him from pursuing this odd strand of memory.

**  
(Her voice lowered, but still, he heard the warm fondness coloring her words and** _**god,** _ **it** _**hurt** _ **.** _**)** _

  
Tears collected on the edge of his vision and Desmond hissed, startled by the sudden  _burning_ feeling at the back of his eyes.

He rubbed at his closed eyelids and just as he did, his elbow knocked against several somethings that clattered to the ground.

The TV abruptly turned on.

"… _expect clear skies over Chicago's Pawnee district and Parker Square…"_

Desmond ignored it. He just needed a face. He could hear her voice so  _very clearly_  but conjuring her face eluded him. Why would he forget her? To make him feel like this,  _how_ could he have forgotten her?

"… _the Mag Mile area is seeing some high winds, but that should slow as we head on to…"_

Desmond  _knew_ she was significant. Her name felt like it was on the tip of his tongue but to Desmond's frustration, nothing would come to mind. He knew that she had started  _something_ that had changed everything he had believed in. Something that he had once thought impossi—

**  
("In the beginning, we set out truths to parchment. To Stone. To the memory of men. These proved impermanent things. Cleansed by fire. Cleansed by famine. Cleansed by flood. All the world is innocent once more. Innocent and ignorant."**

  
Desmond stilled, eyes wide as the words reverberated in his head. Her voice was soft—soothing, even—but the intent in her tone…

His nose began to bleed.

" _We're sorry, but we are interrupting today's scheduled programming to bring you breaking news of a riot currently in_ _progress at the Palin Correctional Center..."_

**  
(Her gown swept the floor over a background of ethereal silver and white. She looked warm in the glowing light but when he saw her face, she was anything but.)**

  
"— _with surrounding businesses placed on lockdown…"_

**  
(She looked down unto him, mouth curled into a mockery of a smile.**

" **But then,** _ **you.**_ **")**

  
" _Eyewitness reports from the scene have confirmed that even shoppers are not safe. Multiple people by the_ _ **nearby Vessal Mart**_ _of Dearborn and—"_

Desmond jolted violently, broken out of the spell by his instincts going haywire. All thoughts of the women teasing his memories were chased away as he became acutely aware of the news broadcast.

Had he heard right? Desmond clumsily got to his feet (when had he even fallen?) and staggered into the living room to get a better view of the TV.

"Vessal?" He mumbled it to himself, the word sticking out from the news report. Where had he—

Desmond's breathing stopped. Nicky's note.

_  
Hey Desmond! Jacks and I are headed to Vessal's to grab groceries!_

_  
Vessal's._

Vessal  _Mart._

"— _shoppers have reportedly been assaulted already and their vehicles stolen. One person was reportedly run over and is being rushed to the hospital in critical condition—"  
_

**  
("I want to know, if you regret anything." The blonde man asked. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, but his eyes were bright and attentive.**

**Desmond heard his own voice answer the man, the words wry and weary. "Sure. I wish I'd been more patient with my parents. I wish I'd listened. And with her…"  
**

  
Desmond felt the world shift.

His vision shuttered. It distorted itself into fields of howling grays and as a trail of gold began its unhurried stretch along the floor…

**  
(** _**She would betray them. He knew she would but as her eyes went glassy—her body still warm in his arms—all he felt was regret, Regret, REGRET—** _

" **Maybe things could have been different.")**

  
"Nicky."  _ **Lucy.**_

Desmond followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep a writing schedule going, but where I'm at, I don't know what story will be updated next. I'm trying really hard to churn on something for Keep the home fires burning, though. It's 50% done! (Thanks for staying with me.) Do you guys have any tips on keeping writer's block at bay/forcing yourself to write?
> 
> Next chapter, we see what Aiden has been up to. 
> 
> Comments/reviews are always appreciated~
> 
> nikaris


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